


Black Storms and Golden Sunshine

by DirkDatAssStrider



Category: The Outsiders - S. E. Hinton
Genre: A lotta death here, Death, Multi, also kinda happy, but mostly sad, life - Freeform, this will make you sad if you loved the book at all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-19
Updated: 2016-01-19
Packaged: 2018-05-15 00:03:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5764114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DirkDatAssStrider/pseuds/DirkDatAssStrider
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a reflection that Ponyboy Curtis writes around the time of his 65th birthday, well after the events of the book.<br/> It explains exactly how the gang's lives played out, who died, who got married, who had kids, where and why.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Black Storms and Golden Sunshine

**Author's Note:**

> So this spawned from the fact that I'm playing Johnny in a stage production of The Outsiders, and I just really wanted to know what happened after. :)
> 
> Please leave your opinion in the comments!

“Mr. Curtis, are you sure that you can breathe properly in this weather?”

 

I looked up at my nurse, a pretty young woman by the name of Samantha, and nodded as best I could manage with my breathing tubes. She flashed a bright pearly smile and tucked a blonde curl behind her ear before setting the brake on my wheelchair in the front of a row of old, cracked gravestones.

 

“I’ll be over here, alright? If you need anything, just ask.” And she left me to my own devices, choosing to walk over to the overgrown gate and study the sunrise. I’d known without asking that she wasn’t a fan of graveyards—I could just tell by her sheepish demeanor upon pulling up.

 

It was a pretty sunrise, bright pinks and oranges dancing over the valley of overgrown and untamed greenery. It made me feel a little nostalgic and melancholy, if I’m honest. I almost had to swallow a lump in my throat as I caught the gold orange peeks of the sun over the cotton candy clouds, choosing instead to redirect my attention to Johnny’s grave.

 

It was the first in the little line—small and simple, kinda like how he had been. His name was carved in beautiful calligraphy—his birth date and his death date also scripted flawlessly. It was the line under it that really got me—a beautifully crafted “Stay Gold” under his information. My chest seized with the memory of the time he’d spoken those words to me—a little hazy now due to the years, but still there nonetheless. 

 

I remember that after he and Dally had died, the entire gang worked their butts off for the dough needed to get them proper gravestones. It’d took a bit of time, sure, but we’d managed to get both of them one after a month or so of hard work. 

 

I also remember the day of Johnny and Dallas’s funeral. Darry had figured it better that it was a double funeral, and Johnny’s parents really didn’t have a hand in the planning at all. ‘Course they showed, after all, Johnny had been their kid, but they never really spoke anything nice of him and only opened their mouths to lob insults at Two-bit, who’d been bawling like a baby. They’d called Two-Bit every name in the book that day, I remember that the most ‘cause Two-bit tried, he really did, to keep his trap shut at the funeral and hold back his smart mouth. Wasn’t till Johnny’s mom had slapped him upside the head that he gave her a good cursing, and a good, needed cursing at that. 

 

Johnny’s mom just kinda gawked at him, like a fish without water, as he tore her a new one. It was strange to see gold ol happy go lucky Two-bit this tore up, but everyone watched in silence as Keith Two-bit Matthews said everything to that woman that Johnny couldn’t and wouldn’t say to her. It was satisfying, really, and the entire gang cheered him as he sputtered his last few cursings before stomping off. 

 

Dally’s old man didn’t give a hang about his son in the first place, and when Darry phoned him about Dally’s death, he’d just grunted and said, “Woulda happened sooner or later. Better sooner.” But there wasn’t a lack of absence at the funeral, not one bit. Every greaser in town showed up to send the duo off, even half of Dal’s ex-girlfriends. Tim Shepard had been one of the first to show up, and although not visibly rattled by Dally’s death, his emotion came out during the time that the friends and family could go up and speak about the deceased.

 

Tim was dressed in a faded navy suit that was a little too small for him, his chestnut greased hair combed neatly back. He’d even shaved his stubble and gotten a clean pair of shoes. He stood in front of the caskets and cleared his throat a little too loudly and awkwardly, but as soon as he started speaking, it was clear that what he was saying was from the heart.

 

“Now, I wasn’t too friendly with Dallas Winston surface wise. We fought like a bunch of crazy monkeys, but I think that’s cause we understood each other the most. Me and him—we, uh, we were almost like brothers. At least, that’s what I liked to think. He was a wild one, kinda like a cyclone coming through your life and rattling up everything it touches. In the end, though, I don’t think Dally was really all that bad.” 

 

Other people took their turns talking about Dally, saying truthful things, jokes, and sometimes really sweet things, till it was time to talk about Johnny, and Darry had been the one to motion me to the front of the church.

 

I’d written what I was gonna say about my buddy on the back of a napkin from Dairy Queen, and I shoved my hand in my suit pocket as I stepped up, feeling the paper there, only to feel silly for doing it. Instead I cleared my throat and spoke what was on my mind.

 

“Johnny Cade was only sixteen years when he died. Sixteen years ain’t much—and there was a lot of things I’m wishing that me and him coulda done together. Maybe see the Statue of Liberty or the Grand Canyon or even something as simple, I don’t know. But even though we didn’t get to do those things, that week we spent cooped up in that church the biggest life changing thing I’ve ever experienced. I got to know Johnny more than I’d ever had, gotten to know that he was one of the most stand up guys I’ll ever meet, and I’d gotten to know exactly what he wanted from life. That was a sense of freedom to walk down the street by himself and not have to worry about getting jumped or….” I swallowed, my throat dry. “Or having to go home and worry himself to sleep over thinking if his old man is going to clobber him or not.”

 

I made eye contact with Johnny’s dad in the front row, who remained stonefaced.

 

I licked my dry lips. “But I think….I think he’s okay now. I think him and Dal have finally gotten that sense of freedom to do what they want. And I’m happy, I really am. I think Johnny’s okay now.”

 

My voice had gone to a whisper and I’d felt the tears running down my face only after Soda wrapped me in a bear hug, obviously trying his best to keep up a straight face. Darry wasn’t soon after, hugging us both like we were the only things holding him down to earth.

 

It had been raining when they put the caskets in the ground, but the pretty kind of rain that the sun is still out, peeking over the rim of the dense black storm clouds and bathing everything in a gold tint. A thought had occurred to me then, as I gazed up into the misty sky. 

 

Dallas was the storm clouds. Although considered a nuisance and a bother at first glance, it was necessary in the ecosystem. It washed away everything, warm like bathwater as it hit my face and my hair. It wasn’t icy like Dally’s eyes had been, but with every drop I couldn’t stop thinking that this was him and he was there.

 

Johnny was more like the golden sun, bright, and although overshadowed by the cloud, bathed everything in a light unique to its own. He had unintentionally been the gang’s sun, we had lived to protect him from harm because he was everyone’s softspoken and abused kid brother. Johnny was the puppy that nobody wanted until we came along and showed him the love and compassion he wouldn’t have understood without us.

 

I smiled to myself, returning to the present, thumbing the golden sunflowers in my hand. Carefully I placed two of them on Johnny and Dally’s graves, before turning my attention to the next one. It read:

 

Sodapop Curtis  
1948-1968  
A son, a brother, a friend.  
Died serving his country.

 

I had to swallow thickly as I placed the flower of Soda’s marble headstone. It still bothered me, even after all this time. Soda had enlisted in the army on the day of his eighteenth birthday, and was soon after deployed overseas. Darry and I had been completely heartbroken, but Soda had kept his promise about writing us as often as he could. 

 

That was until we got a call.

 

I’d been seventeen myself then, a junior in high school. I was busying myself with reading _Pride and Prejudice_ for Literature class until one of Darcy’s monologues get interrupted by Darry, who’d let out a cry so guttural sounding that I almost thought a wild animal had gotten into the house.

 

I’d ran to the kitchen where I found Darry on the floor beside the telephone. The phone was off the receiver, hanging limply by its cord beside him. His face was white as a sheet and he was shaking awful hard, and not like when he was mad, but like after Mom and Dad had died and he was trying to hold in all his emotion in order not to scare Soda and me.

 

“Darry.” I’d tried hard to sound calm, but inside, my heart was doing something crazy. “What’s wrong?” 

 

“Soda.” He answered almost too quickly, and then winced at his own cracked, frantic voice. “He’s….” 

 

I didn’t want to hear him say dead but I knew that’s what was right on the tip of his tongue. I’d started shaking awful hard too, and I couldn’t feel my feet but managed to move them in order to sit next to Darry and hug him just as about tight as I could. 

 

The thought of not seeing Soda goof off or laugh or hoot or holler gave my stomach a lurch. It was crazy, I mean, Soda was a blazing candle that could never be blown out. He was the kinda guy that you’d expect to survive an apocalypse or something.

 

We never actually got Soda’s body back. 

 

We were told that he had been in a fire with a bunch of other men in the barracks and was burned so bad that they couldn’t tell what ash belonged to who. But we still gave him a proper funeral, and it was another terrible time where everyone and their mothers showed up, pretending to know him ‘cause of his good looks and charisma. 

 

Darry couldn’t bring himself to speak about Soda when the time had come, and even I couldn’t force my legs to move. Trouble was, I’d felt numb. The only other times I’d felt that numb was when Mom and Dad had died, or when Johnny said those last words to me with so much desperation, or when I’d watched Dallas Winston crumble in a bloody heap on the rain streaked pavement. 

 

Steve had been the one to speak up. He was still dressed in his work clothes, a dark smear of car grease visible on his cheek. He stood awkwardly at the front of the church before heaving a shaky sigh. He was taking this awful hard—after all, he’d been Soda’s best buddy.

 

“Sodapop said something to me once that I think’s fitting now. It was a little after his parents died, and he was trying his darnedest to keep a cool face for his brothers—“ Steve’s eyes met mine and Darry’s. “—And I had asked him, why try so hard to be happy? He’d grinned at me, that crazy way he did when he thought you weren’t getting something that was supposed to be obvious. He then explained that he wasn’t crying because his parents were gone, but because he was lucky enough to know them.”

 

Darry hid his eyes in his hands. I knew why he was so upset—Dad had said the same thing to Soda after he was so upset over his horse, Mickey Mouse, being sold. 

 

Sodapop was buried on a bright, sunny day. The wind was cool on my drying tears and I almost wanted to live here, right beside my brother and my parents’ graves. 

 

The gang stayed a bit longer than everyone else. Or, at least, what was left of the gang. It was Darry, Two-bit, Steve, and me. We didn’t really speak as we stared at the marble headstone, thoughts running through our heads about Soda. For me, it was mostly good thoughts—I’d appreciated how Soda had always been the peacemaker and the comedic relief that we needed when times were tough. I was gonna miss him something awful, but the thing that Steve had said really stroke a cord in me. I was sad that I wouldn’t be able to see my brother again, but glad that I even knew him in the first place. 

 

Darry’s grave was the newest in the little line, and the last, save Mom and Dad’s. The dirt that had been dug up still looked fresh, although little spurts off grass had shot up beside the headstone. I placed the last three sunflowers on the rest of my family’s graves, studying Darry’s closely. 

 

He died about a month ago of a heart attack. He’d been seventy one. He had a wife and a nice daughter that he’d left behind, along with me, his kid brother. Darry had lived a fulfilling life. After I’d left for college, he’d met a girl and settled down with her, before having his beautiful daughter and naming her after Mom. 

 

His wife took his death awful hard but I didn’t see his daughter at the funeral. I was too distraught to inquire where she was, but later found out that she’d eloped in Europe. 

 

It was just me and Two-bit at the funeral. Steve had moved on years ago, but me and Two-bit had stayed in our little town. He had gotten married and divorced—but had straightened up real fast when it came to taking care of his two sons. It was almost amazing how the kids fixed good ol Two-bit. He’d stopped shoplifting, for one, and had gotten a real job as a mechanic to put the kids through school.

His oldest was a dentist now—had his own practice on the edge of town and got a pretty good lump of dough every year to support him and his fiancé. His youngest was a little more like how Two-bit had been, crazily ambitious but with the energy to back up his lofty dreams. 

 

Just about a couple of months ago, he’d dropped out of college and gotten signed to a label with the rest of his band, making a promise to Two-bit that he’d repay him in full for the money he lost on college. Two-bit hadn’t been mad at him—in fact, I’ll catch Two-bit smiling at the TV as it reports the country’s top hits of the week, his son’s band slowly gaining popularity every month. 

 

But of course, Two-bit was still Two-bit, and you bet your bottom dollar that every time his son’s band comes on the radio, he’ll blare it so loud that the nurses have to chastise him for it. 

 

As for me, I became a writer. 

 

I suppose I’m decent at writing, all my teachers and professors would tell me so as I was going through school. My biggest supporters had been the gang and the quiet, interesting girl who’d been my high school sweetheart, and then my wife. I’d called her Scout, ‘cause she just hated her real name and she reminded me so absolutely of Scout from _To Kill A Mockingbird_. She’d had soft, olive skin, and wide almost black eyes that were at one time fearful, but over time, grew to be overjoyed.

 

We only had one son together, and we’d both agreed on naming him Johnny. Johnny Curtis.

 

My son didn’t look exactly like his namesake, he’d gotten the almost same hue of olive skin and the wide, almost black eyes, but he had my chestnut locks that were free of the grease we’d used back in the day, and unlike the first Johnny, never carried that fearful expression that he became known for. 

 

My son also grew to be well taller than me and his mom, almost with a build like Darry’s. He looked a lot like a grown man when he was only sixteen, and by the age of nineteen, he’d graduated early from Yale with honors as a Marine Biologist. I remember the pride I’d felt right then, watching my own flesh and blood succeed without the trouble our family had faced before.

 

He left the nest after that, going to travel the world and study all sorts of oceanic creatures. Every so often, I’d get a letter in the mail with pictures of my boy amongst the top scientists in the world.

 

Scout had slipped into a coma about a year ago, due to a life threatening heart attack that almost killed her. I still visit her almost every day with a new book, reading until visiting hours were over. She had aged well, her soft olive skin had given way to creases around her mouth, laugh lines, that showed just how happy her life had been. Her dark hair was solid white now and lay way past her shoulders in white wisps.

 

I’d really missed her jovial eyes the most.

 

“Samantha,” I called for my nurse, my voice cracking with emotion. “I think I’m ready to go the hospital now.”

 

She smiled sympathetically and walked over, unlocking the break on my wheelchair. “Your wife is a lucky woman, Mr. Curtis. What book have you chosen today?”

 

I took out a worn copy of _Gone With The Wind_ from the bag attached to my wheelchair. It was decades old now, the exact same copy that Two-bit had bought for Johnny at the drugstore. I’d taken good enough care of it so it was still readable.

 

I smiled up at Samantha, showing the book to her, “I don’t think I’ve read this one to her yet.”

 

Samantha reached out to thumb the worn spine of the paperback book. “I used to love this story as a kid. I think she’ll love it.” 

 

“I think so too.” I muttered as I was wheeled out of the graveyard, my brain buzzing with the thought of the Southern Gentleman riding into sure death because they were so gallant.


End file.
